


In My Life

by LivingMyBestLife54 (Zarya1640)



Category: Game of Thrones RPF
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Emilia Clarke - Freeform, Emilia likes the Beatles, F/M, Fluff, Forbidden Love, Friendship/Love, Goodbyes, It pains the author to say soulmates, Kit Harington - Freeform, Love, Love Triangles, Romance, Sex, The Hat - Freeform, but soulmates, so there's that, the marriage that should have never happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-08 16:14:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19872436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zarya1640/pseuds/LivingMyBestLife54
Summary: "Wrap parties, retrospectives and maudlin drunkenness in their favorite pubs had been the public face of farewell. She wanted her private goodbye to be quieter..."Facing the end of Game of Thrones, best friends Kit and Emilia take one last outing before his wedding.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LoveManyTrustFew55](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveManyTrustFew55/gifts), [WeBeenKnew](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=WeBeenKnew).



> This is so not what I write. RPF is something I have mocked for years. Yet, here I am. I'm just a girl, standing in front of a fandom, asking you all to love this. 
> 
> The deepest and most grateful thanks to Ellie for the moodboard. You are so thoughtful to share your talents with us all!
> 
> To my NDC Kimilias. Your encouragement and companionship through the Long Night of the post-Season 8 hellscape has saved me. Long may we sleuth!
> 
> Thank you to LoveManyTrustFew55 for Beta reading. All grammar problems are mine, I promise.

_ There are places I'll remember _

_ All my life, though some have changed _

_ Some forever, not for better _

_ Some have gone, and some remain _

_ All these places had their moments _

_ With lovers and friends, I still can recall _

_ Some are dead, and some are living _

_ In my life, I've loved them all _

—The Beatles

  
  


**I**

_ June 2018; Belfast, Northern Ireland _

He would leave for London on Monday morning. His wedding would be Saturday. 

She planned on being very drunk.

But today...today belonged to them. They would be ordinary and do ordinary people things. Except there was nothing ordinary about this for either of them—this was their curtain call.

For so many years leading up to now, they had drawn comfort from the rhythm of their seemingly endless work lives. Long days spent shooting at the Paint Hall or on location were interspersed with rehearsing, reading, or board games in their trailers. Out of necessity, they refined the art of napping sitting up so as not to disturb hair and makeup. Or in his case, carefully layered dirt, corn syrup blood and prosthetic scars. When their storylines finally converged, pranks entered the routine as well as playing poker for gummy bears purloined from craft service. He skillfully distracted her when ocular migraines overtook her, reciting filthy limericks while he held her hand, patiently helping her breathe through the agony. After wrapping for the day, cast dinners often followed; sometimes clubbing, the occasional concert or sporting event varied the routine. Inevitably, the pair of them returned to a hotel room, usually hers, ostensibly to talk or watch television. They fooled almost no one.

An insipid television program might lure them to the couch. She would feign earnest attention in whatever BBC quiz show droned on; he would ease his fingers beneath her waistband and with the barest touch, stroke the curve of her hip until her skin prickled. She returned the favor when Manchester United played, sliding her tongue around his earlobe, raking her nails through his curls, or licking her way down his neck until he grabbed her arse—hard—and pulled her flush against him. She savored surrender: being fucked into the couch until she shattered. Sometimes he bypassed pretense. Shoving her against the wall, he would ruck up her skirt around her waist, and dropping to his knees would eat her out until panting, she slumped to the floor, a quivering, dripping mess. But she always gave as good as she got, taking him deep, inviting his thrusts until he came in her throat. Sex existed as a playful temptation between best friends. Yes, quarrels, other romantic partners, work schedules, her health, or her disgust at his debauched indulgences kept them apart—sometimes for many months, even close to a year at a time. Inevitably, the routine would overtake them. And without thinking, she would find herself back in her Belfast suite, straddling his lap with his extraordinarily skilled mouth teasing her tits. When it became tender—when she began needing him, she couldn’t say. He was always there, waiting, a knowing look in his eyes, her own feelings reflected in the soft curl of his smile. 

Until now. All of this was ending. No more Belfast. No more Dany. And this. Whatever  _ this _ was. Even his fiancée an ocean away had felt theoretical—an alternative reality beyond the space they currently inhabited. She had allowed herself to be swept along by the currents of their work: the fog of fatigue, the relentlessness of all nighters in the mud and snow, and days alone with green screens. He knew her, he understood her and she, him. Every day the gravity of their emotions pulled them into orbit around each other. She didn’t want to name what she felt for him.

Last night, after making love with aching intention, they laid face to face, panting, damp limbs entwined. He pulled back to look at her; their eyes locked and held. Waxen streetlight diffused through the curtains, mottling their skin in light and shadow. Words failing, they whispered with touch. 

Yes, she wanted him, clung to him: her ally, confidante, friend, lover. And yet sharp, dissonant pain sliced her to ribbons. She fought the impulse to grind against him.  _ Fucking  _ would fix this. Anything to stop thinking and feeling bad. Instead, she squirmed to be closer to him, resting her head on his chest with a deep exhale. They fit as halves of a locket should. Dammit all. Languidly, he stroked her hair, gentling her, until his hand stuttered to a stop.

He slept. 

She resisted sleep as long as she could before drifting off.

When she woke, she remained still as long as she could, curled into his side, watching him sleep. She repressed the impulse to place open kisses on his chest, instead relishing the warm pressure of his leg wedged between her thighs, his slow steady breaths. A morning person, he was usually up before she was: she would groan-yawn and stretch awake, rolling onto his rumpled pillow before catching a glimpse of him through her balcony doors, smoking a cigarette and scrolling through his phone. Today, though, she would do anything to slow the ascent of the sun.

He smiled crookedly when he finally awoke. Cradling her face in both his hands, he kissed her so sweetly, involuntarily tears slid down her cheeks. He rubbed them away with his thumbs. 

* * *

Wrap parties, retrospectives and maudlin drunkenness in their favorite pubs had been the public face of farewell. She wanted her private goodbye to be quieter. They had decided on a sentimental visit to Rathlin Island, a place where they had been able to explore their friendship out of the public eye. There, they had said everything—and nothing—with little fear of eavesdroppers. Where they could be an ordinary couple holding hands without amateur paparazzi Instagrammers armed with iPhones shadowing their steps. Meandering trails through high grasses and hedgerows would hide them well.

  
  


Thanks to his deft handling of his posh German sports car, he shaved a solid twenty minutes off of the usual two-hour drive—in spite of a protracted battle of wills over music. Tupac—he objected to; they settled on the Ella Fitzgerald songbook. She crooned along with her favorite “All the Things You Are” and other standards while polishing off a bag of salt and vinegar crisps. 

They made the 11am sailing with a few minutes to spare. She noticed him scanning passengers’ hands, searching, she knew, for cellphone cameras that accompanied a spark of wide-eyed recognition. Neither could stomach autographs and gushing today. Jerking her head toward the back of the boat, he acknowledged her with a nod, followed her to the stairs and climbed to the upper deck. The ferry launched with a mechanized growl; she watched the white foamy wake arise as a ribbon waving behind them. Irish cliffs became impressionist postcards of moss green and umber as they traveled further from shore. Low, moaning wind pressed against her head. Squinting, she scrunched her face against the ache, wrapping her arms around herself for warmth. Without warning, her hood went up over her head and an arm draped heavily around her shoulders; he pulled her into his side. Sighing, she relaxed against him, listening to the water slapping against the boat, the engine grunts and whines. No words passed between them during the duration of the crossing; the relative silence felt easy

Once they arrived at Church Bay, they remained in their seats as long as possible, allowing the majority of passengers to move in front of them. Exiting the ferry, she pulled her parka hood to further shadow her face, shoved her hands in her pockets and slouched forward, taking quick strides onto the bouncing pontoon dock. So far, they had escaped notice. Risking identification was the trickiest part of being in public with him. For the most part she could, without makeup and wearing simple clothing, blend in. She couldn’t decide if she would miss the platinum blonde hair or be relieved when her invisibility returned. Still, when the hair color finally faded, Dany would be gone for good. She had already grieved her alter-ego’s fate, but the finality of shedding the last vestige of the Mother of Dragons sat like a stone in her belly. Would he vanish into memory as well as part of this dream they had lived for a decade? She swallowed hard, pushing the thought away, picking up her pace.

Walking beside her, he also aimed for anonymity: his distinctive tangle of curly brown hair pulled back beneath a taupe baseball cap, his eyes well hidden behind sunglasses, his coat hood and a scarf draped like a shawl around his shoulders. The beard, though, the beard made it tricky. She glanced over at him, his gaze directed mostly down as he tried to avoid looking directly at anyone. As much as she tried to avoid the often-awkward public encounters, he dreaded them. Extraversion and humor shielded her. Fake it till you make it. In another lifetime, he might have been a poet or a naturalist, she imagined, sitting out on a heath somewhere amongst ruins, a notebook and pencil in hand, following a solitary path suited to his sensitive nature.

They turned right at the end of the pier and strolled down the sidewalk hugging the curve of the bay, following along the low rock walls. 

Dazzling bright sunshine reflected off the water, framed by a saturated blue sky: she winced at the brilliance of it. Deep inhalations drew bracing briny air into her lungs. She looked up at the sky and smiled. A gurgling stomach drew her attention, “You brought lunch, yeah?”

Glassy eyed, he gazed out on the water, seemingly lost in thought.

“Oi! Harington!” she barked. 

He turned to her. “Um sorry, Em. Lunch, right? I have sandwiches in my rucksack. Snacks. But we can stop at the pub if you’d rather.”

She shook her head. “As long as it isn’t tuna and sweet corn.”

“We’re good, then.” A pause. “You want to hire bicycles to the puffin center?”

“Let’s walk that trail with the boggy mosses and the cliffs. Puffins are that way as well, the cheeky little blighters.” She shoved his arm gently. “Better have a smoke while you can. I’ll visit the loo.”

While she kept walking, he dropped to a nearby bench and fished his cigarettes and lighter out of his pocket. “I’ll quit. You know I will.”

“I remember how well that went in Spain…” she looked back at him, raised her eyebrows and grinned.

Raising the back of his hand to her, his index and middle fingers in a “V,” he smiled and shook his head. “Take those insolent eyebrows and harass someone else.”

She threw back her head and laughed.

**II**

The Kinnamer trail wasn’t long, but it covered rugged, hilly landscape featuring barely marked trails and bogs hidden behind fern and moss-covered banks. These traits translated into exceptional beauty but few hikers which suited them both. Farm animals, thankfully indifferent to fame, ignored their loud conversations and laughter. Kit only slipped twice, mucking up his gentleman farmer Barbour jacket. For her part, Emilia had successfully covered several miles without splashing mud above her knees. As the sun drifted toward the west, hunger pangs beset them, the muffins and toast hastily purloined from the hotel buffet feeling far away. The next step was locating a proper spot to eat so they started looking for flat-ish rocks or dry bits of ground that would be suitable for a picnic. Upon rounding a towering cluster of clay-flint boulders, they discovered a blanket of riotous color spreading out before them.

“Oh Kit! It’s almost like a faerie circle,” she exclaimed, crouching down to examine the wildflowers: the deep yellow buttercups; the spindly heath orchids; and mounds of sea rockets rising out of the moss like cushions of clouds. Her sunglasses came off her face and she hung them from her sweater so she could better take in the textures of fleshy leaves and ferns. Inhaling the perfume, she closed her eyes meditatively. “I feel like I should drop into lotus and chant.” 

She heard him rustling around in his rucksack. Her eyes flickered open; eyebrows raised. “Let me guess.”

“Pictures,” he answered, removing his beloved Leica from the bag. He then traded his sunglasses for what Emilia jokingly referred to as his Harry Potter glasses, before removing the lens cap.

“I’m quite certain you have enough pictures of me.”

“I’m quite certain I don’t.”

She flushed with pleasure.  _ Keep it light.  _ “Keeeet,” she whined, pursing her lips into duckface. “Do I have to?”

“Just a few.” He studied his camera intently, adjusting settings and checking the lens focus. He paused, glanced up at her, melancholy underpinning his wan half-smile. “I want to remember this.” 

Recognizing her own conflicted feelings, she acquiesced. “Alright Mister Fashion Photographer, you’ve got ten minutes. Make it count. Because if a sandwich isn’t on the way to my belly soon, I turn from cute cuddly gremlin to evil destructo gremlin.”

First standing, then kneeling, he snapped away, tilting his camera this way and that. At first, she tossed her hair or shrugged with ennui. She offered a seductive smile, gazing over her shoulder provocatively; his wide grins gratified her vanity. A few more poses and she began wondering what he was up to. Feeling conspicuous, she covered her face with her hands and peered through spread fingers. “No one but Beyoncé deserves this many pictures.”

Leaving her embarrassment unacknowledged, he paused for a long moment, resting a finger against his lips, then frowned. “I want to try something. Lie on the ground, would you—into the flowers so they are like a halo around your head.”

“Ummm. Hell no. I am not lying down in the mud.”

Removing the baseball cap from his head, he plopped it on hers and pulled her hood up over the top. “You should be well protected.” He gestured to the ground with a single hand, appearing bemused, but inflexible. 

“Fine. But this is it.” She rolled her eyes, but tempered it with a wink. Bracing her hands on the ground at her sides, she eased herself backwards, trying to avoid crushing the flowers as she laid down. She noticed the sky for the first time in several hours. “Those clouds are awfully dark. Do you think it will rain?”

Ignoring her, Kit took a knee and reached over her body to properly frame her face with the variegated grey and black furry trim from her hood. “Comfortable?”

“As comfortable as one can be whilst sprawled in the dirt,” she teased, flashing him a toothy grin. “The things we do for art.”

He warmed up with a few snaps from different angles before assuming a cross-legged position beside her. “For this one, no poses. Just you looking at me.” The camera returned to his eye and he resumed shooting. After a moment, he climbed to his feet and stood —straddling— over her, his camera directed downwards.

“Excuse me, is this necessary?” she laughed, prickling under his scrutiny.

Without breaking form, he grinned, “Absolutely. Stop being a fucking diva.”

The sun emerged from where it had been tucked behind the clouds; she squinted, smiled, looking up at him, wishing, irrationally, that he would kiss her. 

A pensive expression crossed his face. “‘... _ rosemary, that’s for remembrance. _ ’ And what’s next? Pansies, I think. For thoughts? Or is it something else.”

“‘ _ I would give you some violets,’  _ Emilia resumed the recitation, pried from recessed drama school memories. “‘— _ but they withered all when my father died.’ _ ” Their eyes met. The ocean crashing against the cliffs below faded away, yielding to the winds delicately stirring the grasses.

“You didn’t bring me violets when dad…” she took a shuddering breath. “But you did bring me Indian takeaway. We watched horrible disaster movies and you let me cry on your shoulder all night.”

“We crawled in your bed, ate wine gums, and snuggled under that disgusting duvet.”

“It has sentimental value.”

“And absolutely no warming value.”

Dropping his camera in his pocket, he leaned over, tucked an errant lock behind her ear and pressed a kiss to her cheek.

She pushed up on her elbows, drawn toward him as if pulled by a string.

He stared at her; what answers he sought in her face, she couldn’t guess—his expression was inscrutable. 

A blink—

“So, lunch?” He extended a hand to help her stand. While she brushed refuse off her jeans, he unpacked a collection of petrol station convenience items. Cheese and pickle sandwiches, custard creams, a couple of bruised apples and lukewarm beer. Regrettably her water bottle was empty. 

She rubbed her hands together in anticipation. Food was food was food.

Kit had spread a towel he had purloined from the hotel on a rock, an adequate table for their needs. When he completed divvying up the food, he sat beside Emilia, raising his beer bottle in toast; she mirrored his gesture. “What shall we drink to?”

“The end?”

She thought for a minute, then sang: “ _ And in the end/ the love you take/ is equal to the love you make.” _

“Abbey Road. Nice!”

The clinked bottles and each took a pull off their beers before enthusiastically tucking into their meals. 

“Quoting Shakespeare. Smooth,” Emilia said, chewing a bite of the ploughman’s sandwich. 

“Yeah. In the flowers. You reminded me of that painting of Ophelia in the Tate. You’ve seen it?”

She nodded. “Not to totally change the subject, but have you considered performing Shakespeare? You’d be brilliant. They’re still fond of you at the National. They’re always doing something.”

“I’m rusty. Not quite in the Branaugh, Tennant, Cumberbatch league that’s for damn sure.”

“So maybe not Hamlet.” She took a bite of her apple. “But one of the Henrys. Or Taming of the Shrew. You’re a natural at comedy.”

“Only if you played Kate.” He grinned, polishing off the last bit of crust. He tossed the wrappings into the grocery bag they used for rubbish.

“Maybe after my next thing.”

He took a pull off his beer. “The Christmas movie?”

“With Emma Thompson. Yes.” She wiped her mouth on her jacket sleeve, having discovered the lack of napkins earlier. Men could be the worst at planning. Took a piss by the side of the road. Wiped their hands on their pockets—or not at all. Disgusting.

“Introduce me, please!” he wheedled. “I’ll clean the loos in your flat for a month. Or—”

“Or what? I have all sorts of designs on your virtue to demand as payment.” She arched a brow, then reached over his arm and snatched a biscuit from the package on his lap. 

He smacked her hand playfully. “You’re pure evil, woman.”

“You bring out the best in me.”

A few more petty squabbles over food followed—divvying up the remaining biscuits, complaints about warm beer—but Emilia sensed the mood shifting. Longer silences stalled their conversation. Kit’s ability to brood could sober a drunk after a night of vodka shots. 

She touched his arm. “Where are you right now?” 

“You wrapped a few days ago.”

Her stomach convulsed at the memory. “I did.”

“How did it feel? Really? Besides the usual things you tell people when they ask?”

“It's how I imagine a phantom limb would feel. You know it’s gone but nothing your mind says can convince your body differently. I have lived in her skin for so long that I feel like I've experienced a death.”

His face collapsed. “Except in this case, she is dead and it’s my fault.” 

She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him into her. “Oh darling I’m sorry.” 

“I’m not done yet.” He closed his eyes, his face taut. “And I wish I was. I wish he could die too. He wouldn’t want to live without her. Not after…” 

“They did you dirty. I mean, they did me dirty, but they gave me a lot to work with.” She knew from the first time she read the scripts how fucked up the season was, particularly for their characters but Lena and Nic had also been handed a crock of shit. 

“Doesn’t it feel like we built up to something only to have it blown to bits?” 

“Are we ungrateful for feeling like this? We’re set for life if we’re smart. We are working actors!” The frustration had never abated as the months passed—for either of them. Much to the producer’s chagrin, they holed up in their trailers, usually together, and tried to keep each other sane; they kept their public faces pleasant for set visitors and crew not in the know, maintaining the highest possible level of professionalism. But it had cost them, particularly Kit. 

Now he slid down onto the ground and leaned back against the rock, facing the ocean. He continued shaking his head in disbelief.

Emilia slid after him, scooting right up against his side. She wrapped an arm around his shoulders; when he looked questioningly at her, she tugged him downwards. Without hesitating, he allowed her to pull him his head onto her lap, relaxing as she cradled him atop her thighs. Untangling the hair tie from his top knot, she fanned his curls out behind him, finger combing his hair, massaging his scalp.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Her heart squeezed painfully. “Always.”

* * *

Returning to the ferry was uneventful, if a bit more sober in contrast to their earlier exuberance. As they traversed through glens and bypassed brambles, she tried to lighten the mood by regaling him with war stories from various foreign galas, including one about a Chinese wannabe rapper who followed her—into the ladies—whilst rapping his Khalessi fantasies. 

He chuckled at most of the wrong parts of the story. 

_ Off with the fairies in your mind, are you?  _ she thought. 

She ran out of material once they returned to the main road. How many weird ass gala stories could one woman have, anyway?

Parched, dirty, weary—she insisted they stop when she spotted an old bus bench not quite buried in overgrowth, near a cairn just off the upcoming crossroads. Nearby, grazing farm animals completed the pastoral tableaux. Removing a bit of gravel from her boot suddenly seemed paramount. She made a beeline for it. Kit strolled along then sat down beside her.

“So,” he said. Slouching down, he hung his head over the backrest. 

She removed her boot, shook out the annoying rocks and refuse. How much shit could accumulate in laced up hiking boots anyway? “Yeah.”

Several curious lambs meandered up to the wire mesh fence, bleating and munching. A goat wandered over to join them. She had no idea sheep chewing could be so loud. 

He seemed to be at a loss for words; she had no intention of helping him out. She continued to groom her socks, removing burrs and leaf crumbs. Maybe if they were lucky, a public well or water pump would be close by.

Sea birds soared, the yelping keows and calls as they chased each other across the sky. Vanishing as they dove over the cliffs only to race up toward the clouds moments later. She side-glanced over at Kit to see if he birdwatched with her: he dozed. 

And damn if those sheep didn’t sound like they were right in her ear. She twisted around to shoo them away. 

“HOLY SHIT!”

The startled goat bolted, yanking Kit’s scarf off his shoulders. Kit flew off the bench with a start and, in a blur, jumped over the fence to chase after the thief.

Kit dodged sheep, hurdled a scraggly bush and zig-zagged from fence to fence trying to corner the animal. Refusing to cooperate, the goat raced deeper into the pasture, yarn strands flying behind him.

Emilia laughed until her sides hurt, watching him run about like a footballer on defense. 

The man and goat faced off. The goat, for his part, stood chewing the scarf as if it were a tasty morsel. Kit, for his part, would take a few charging steps toward the creature before it took off again. From Emilia’s perspective, the perverse Latin ballroom dance between man and beast was the funniest thing she had witnessed in months. A steady stream of curse words followed every step.

Finally, he picked up a rock and pitched it at the goat—missing it by several feet.

“That was cashmere you tosser!” he said hopping back over the fence.

She almost fell off the bench with another bout of wheezing giggles. “I’m sorry. That was brilliant.”

Kit smiled, did his best impression of a grumpy face—until a guffaw burst from his lips. He joined her on the bench and they both laughed until they cried.

When the hilarity died down, they studied each other for a long moment. 

“I have a surprise back at the car,” he said with a bit of cheeky pride.

“Oh really?” This revelation was unexpected. 

They exchanged smiles.

“Let’s go.” He reached over, laced his fingers through hers, and brought her hand to his lips for a chivalrous kiss.

They held hands until they reached the ferry dock.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As day becomes night, pretending that everything is normal between the best friends becomes more difficult. Emilia, who knows the window to level with Kit is closing rapidly, has to decide if she will share her truth--or walk away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter veers into adult territory so if that makes you squeamish, you might want to go elsewhere. 
> 
> Thanks again to the NDC and you nice people who have left comments. Sharing with the public is pretty damn scary. Thanks for the hand holding!
> 
> Ellie! You magnificent person, you! Thank you for the moodboard. Beautiful Work! 
> 
> If this isn't your cuppa, no need to linger. No one is twisting your arm behind your back and forcing you to read this. This isn't fandom Guantanamo so shoo! 
> 
> Thank you to LoveManyTrustFew55 for beta reading. Mistakes are mine--not hers.
> 
> This is my version of a "Lifetime Inspired By a True Story" movie. Because we know GoT S8 had a lot of those behind the scenes.

_But of all these friends and lovers_

_There is no one compares with you_

_And these memories lose their meaning_

_When I think of love as something new._

_Though I know I'll never lose affection_

_For people and things that went before_

_I know I'll often stop and think about them_

_In my life, I'll love you more_ —The Beatles

  


**III**

Kit hadn’t exaggerated. She had been shocked when she heard what he had concocted.

He was quite chuffed by her reaction. 

Apparently, Craig, a grip on Dragon unit, had an uncle who owned a small, but idyllic family farm not far from Torr Head. He rented out a private patch close to the shoreline to campers and backpackers who wanted the naturalist experience. Kit had paid the uncle generously to reserve the spot; Craig had helped out by gathering some picnic supplies on Kit’s behalf and leaving them on site for their enjoyment. 

While Kit changed clothes outside, Emilia changed in the car. The issue wasn't modesty, rather space. Thankfully, she had thought to bring clean clothes; her jeans and boots could be described charitably as filthy. Her choices didn’t scream ‘date’—cozy sweater, yoga pants, and wool slip on shoes. But was this actually a date? Rooting around in her handbag, she found a hairbrush, cleansing wipes, breath mints and lipstick—she availed herself of all of them, a bit surprised that she had such a keen desire to feel pretty. 

Emerging from the car, the cold briny air slapped her, the salt and seaweed scents tangled up forever in her memories Northern Ireland. Studying her surroundings as she walked to the site, Emilia had to admit she was impressed not only by the beautiful locale Kit had scouted out for them, but the thought and effort he put into planning.

“Well done you, Mr Harington!” she crowed while surveying the scene. A copse of ash and oak on the hillside provided some privacy, but beyond that a dirt trail led down to a rocky beach on the bay. Off to the west, the sun descended slowly toward the horizon, shades of coral and purple trimming heavy, bruise-colored clouds above it. She turned back to their picnic spot.

Several crates loaded with firewood, and blankets had been placed alongside a picnic basket on a bench. Kit rifled through the items and completed his perusal with a grin. “We’re set! He thought of it all.”

“Really!” Emilia clasped her hands together. “What have you there?”

“Surprises. Now if you will bring me something from the boot—a smallish crate. Has some French writing on it. You’ll know it when you see it.”

“You couldn’t have asked me to bring it after I changed my clothes?”

He shrugged.

“Fine, fine,” she said, starting the trek back to the car. It was a few minutes stroll from the picnic spot to the road through tall grasses and avoiding shrubbery. His carefully plotted scheme of a transparently romantic nature threw her off her pins a bit. She had assumed they would be returning to Belfast. Maybe stopping for dinner at a pub. Watching a movie perhaps. She hadn’t envisioned this. This was not a night out between ‘mates.’ 

When she reached the Audi, she popped the boot. The wooden box appeared after she removed a bag of emergency supplies. Her eyes widened: she squealed and did a happy dance.

Even at a distance, she could hear Kit’s deep belly laugh.

Carefully as she could manage, clutching it to her chest, she practically skipped back. Kit, squatted down by a stone encircled fire ring, prepared a fire. He glanced up when he heard her approach.

“Wine!” she trilled.

“Yes, it is. Quite good wine if you must know.”

“Fuck, Kit, this is a £700 bottle of— “she studied the label “—Domaine Leflaive  
Chevalier-Montrachet Grand Cru 2014.”

“Mmmhmmm.” He crumpled up some paper and stuffed it in the crevices around the kindling. 

“This entitles you to at least one obscene sexual favor— “

He raised his eyebrows.

“—within reason, naturally.” 

He sat back on his heels, his smug expression a bit self-satisfied, but terribly attractive. “Only one?”

She sniffed and tossed her hair.

“I look forward to your inventiveness, Clarke.”

Clever Craig had included a wine chiller in the stash. He apparently _had_ thought of everything. Towels, batteries, waterproof matches—cloth napkins!

Also packed away in the boot was a telescope. How he’d managed to procure the fancy equipment from the astronomy faculty at Queen’s she assumed was a good story. Perfect dinner conversation, By the time the flames leapt and danced, the picnic was ready to eat. Kit had made perfect selections from the lox and fresh wild strawberries to artisan crackers and triple cream Brie. How he had managed to buy her favorite mocha tarts and have them delivered here touched her. He _had_ been paying attention to the details of their Belfast lives all these years.

He poured a glass of wine into the wide-mouthed crystal goblet and passed it over to her before filling his own. 

Following his lead, she swirled it around gently, inhaling the complex bouquet. “I’ve a whiff of the fruit—maybe even some wood—and smoke?” She closed her eyes, the scents wafting into her senses. “What do you think?” she looked over to him for his opinion.

“That here, at dusk, you may be more beautiful than you have ever been.” 

His words tied an unexpected warm knot in her belly. She averted her gaze, focusing vaguely on horizon, but she reached for his hand with her empty one, stroking his palm with her fingertips. 

* * *

The campfire burnt low. whenever bits of the disintegrating log broke off, the coals coughed sparks into the night. A mere slice of moon hung in the heavens, yielding the full stage to starlight. She fed a few pieces of kindling to the embers.

By the barest flickering flames, she gathered up refuse to repack into the picnic basket: dirty plates; a forgotten bruschetta toast, smeared with tomato; olive oil; leftover shavings of charcuterie and salmon. The bakery box was empty, naturally, but she optimistically swiped her finger along the bottom to collect chocolate shavings. Sitting back on her heels, she searched for the wine. The bottle of white burgundy had to be here somewhere. Intuitively she knew she would soon need a drink. Sheltered in this gauzy dream of evening, avoidance had been the theme. Star gazing. Gourmet picnic. They could easily maintain being willfully oblivious with very little effort. Yet that was not the way of the daughter of Jenny and Rick Clarke. Shit. Would that her parents had been more indulgent so she could more readily embrace denial. She rolled her shoulders, stretching her muscles, attempting to relieve the tension wired through her like a taut violin string.

Kit, for his part, shook the crumbs from their picnic blanket and repositioned it on the ground before tossing the luscious knitted throw from its perch atop the telescope box. He had spent the last hour showing her all the visible planets, and pointing out some of the lesser known constellations with their component stars. She knew he was a bit of a nerd, having recognized a fellow nerd from the earliest days of knowing him; the revelation of this extra bit of unironic nerdiness charmed her.

She studied him kneeling beside the open box, securing the tripod, holding a torch in his teeth. His glasses had slid the tip of his nose: he scrunched his face in a futile attempt to push them back onto his bridge. She couldn’t help but snicker.

Pausing, he looked up. “Hmmmm?”

“Keys?” She pointed at the picnic basket.

“Oh yeah. Right.” He patted his pockets until he found them, then removed the torch from his mouth. “Wait. I’ll carry the basket; you light the way.” He tossed her the torch, then resumed his task packing the instrument, fastening the latches one by one until the box was secured. He tucked the box under one arm and reached for the basket with his opposite hand.

“I feel useless,” she muttered.

“If you keep me from breaking my neck in the dark, you will have more than done your part.” He paused. “Why don’t you pick up that throw? You can snuggle it on the drive back”

Moments later, they picked their way through the field heading back to the car. She flicked on the high beam to illuminate a path through the dew dripping grass; she stepped gingerly to avoid the rocks and muddy divots — the boggy spots. He followed her lead. When they reached the gravel, they walked side by side to the Audi in silence, save the rhythmic hoots of an owl against a background of chirping crickets. Emilia clicked the key fob; the boot popped open and he placed the basket inside. She took the telescope from Kit and packed it beside the food.

“You need anything?” He slammed the boot shut.

She grabbed her purse from off the front seat and applied lip balm. “That’s it,” she said, with forced cheer. She couldn’t help thinking with every bite, with every laugh and every inadvertent touch she had checked a “last time” off her mental list.

He touched her hand, brushing his fingers over her knuckles. “It’s going to be okay, Em.”

So, he did sense it. She could hardly be surprised. They absorbed one another’s emotions like tuning forks.

Starting back toward their spot in the meadow, Emilia shone the torch ahead of them.

“I was thinking—”

“Thinking is never a good idea,” she interjected.

“—maybe tomorrow— “

“Tomorrow? I’m on a plane back to London tomorrow.” 

She improvised the lie: she didn’t have a plane ticket, but she made a mental note to take care of it as soon as she returned to mobile range. Why the prevarication? She couldn’t say. Or didn’t want to admit, even to herself.

He frowned; his brow furrowed. “I thought— “

“You thought what?” She snapped, harsher than she intended. Off his wince, she cringed. It had been a magical evening after a lovely day. _No need to be a bitch, Emilia_ ; the words poured out of her mouth as if an alien had invaded her brain. Maybe it was fatigue—alcohol—emotions running high. 

“Did I miss something?” He reached for her arm, and clutched her elbow, but she twisted out of his grasp. “Emilia?”

She inhaled deeply, whispering so softly that her voice could be wind. “I need this to be done.” 

Abruptly, his feet stumbled to a stop, sending gravel skittering. 

She managed a few steps before realizing she had moved beyond him. Looking back over her shoulder, she saw him standing mouth agape, forming soundless words then promptly shaking his head as if to erase his thoughts before starting again. His eyes—those warm brown eyes—compelled her to stay put instead of racing ahead.

Prompted by her expression, an entire monologue appeared on his confused face in the space of a few breaths. “I’m not sure I’m following you,” he said at last. 

Tucking the torch into her waistband, she took a few steps toward him. “What part confuses you?”

“I thought we would at least spend tomorrow together. There is that gastropub a little way out of town—we have so little time left—I assumed we would spend it revisiting some favorite places. Before— “

“Before what?” she ground out. “Why has our time has suddenly slipped away? Please explain that to me. It isn’t because I’m leaving for home tomorrow.”

To his credit, he flushed red. “You aren’t even gone yet and I miss you. Please— “

“What the actual fuck, Kit?! “She resumed marching through the knee-high grass, sending it swishing and shushing with each step. 

He chased after her, leaping over stones and mud puddles, taking long strides until he was once again beside her.” I’m not—I know th— “

She was so over being polite, even with him, her best friend. “You thought we could spend a little more time being, what, fuck buddies? Does it give you a thrill to live dangerously like in the early days, breaking the fraternization rules? A little secret? Memo, Kit, we weren’t fooling anyone. They all saw it.”

“It? What’s it? That we were young—excited—clueless? Careless?” He threw up his hands.

“They saw that we could barely keep our hands off each other. We wore our feelings on our faces. They saw it then; they saw it last week.”

He cringed. “Emilia— “

“I am going to say this because you sure as hell won’t. We don’t have time because you asked a woman to marry you and you are putting a ring on her finger next Saturday.” She shook her head grimly. “We are out of fucking time, darling.”

Raking his fingers through his hair, he inhaled sharply through his nose. Took a few steps left, then right—a pause —another step. He looked everywhere but at her, he pressed his palms together in front of his face. He patted his pockets habitually—she knew—for his cigarettes. 

“Have a smoke already. Go on. Get a move on that tumor or cancer or whatever.” 

“What the hell is your problem? Can we have a conversation?” His confusion infuriated her. 

“Fine!” Three steps and Emilia crossed into his personal space. Diving into his jacket pocket, she removed a cigarette from the pack, stuck it between her teeth and lit it before he knew what was happening. She indulged in a quick comfort drag remembering what it was like to be a teenager bumming smokes off friends at parties. 

Flying at her, he plucked the burning cigarette from her lips. “Shit, Em!”

“Oh, come on—what are you so bent about? “She was being petty and she didn’t give a fuck. She folded her arms across her chest.

Holding up his hands in surrender, he chuckled darkly. Taking a shaky drag off the cigarette, he blew a smoke cloud off to the side, away from where she stood. “Look at me,” he said finally, moving several steps closer.

She turned away from him, refusing to give him the satisfaction. 

He took her chin in his hand and guided her face toward his. “Do you think _I_ want this? Really?” 

“Do you want this? That’s rich!” She swatted away his hand. A cackle burst out of her as she squatted down on the blanket, patting around the shadowy lumps and bumps. Damned if she would have this conversation without wine. Grabbing the bottle, she removed the stopper with her teeth, spit it out and pushed the bottle through her lips for a few exquisite gulps. She held it out to him; he held up a hand “no.” She took another swallow for good measure, licked her lips, and felt around the blanket until she found and replaced the stopper.

Hesitant, as if he were approaching a wild animal (and she just might be that, she realized), he eased down to the blanket, watching her warily. He toyed with his cigarette, tapping off the ash. “Emilia, talk to me. Please.”

She studied his face, wondering whether those twitching eyebrows meant he was talking himself into something—or out of something. By the light of the dying flames, his trembling hand cast shadows in the ground. How much truth could he handle? _10...9...8...7.._.she counted mentally, having mixed success at calming her nerves. She vowed to be more kind. 

Taking a deep breath, she began levelly, “How do you expect me to answer ‘Do I think you want this’? By this I assume you mean this tangled mess you’ve managed to land in. You want a serious answer—not a rhetorical one.”

“Not unless you want it to be. Rhetorical that is.” He took another long drag from his cigarette and for a moment she envied the cigarette for touching his lips. “I don’t want to fight with you.” 

“I _want_ to fight with you,” she spat. “It makes me feel better.”

He rolled his eyes; she wanted to crack his kneecaps with a cricket bat. 

“Do you want _this_ —dysfunctional ménage-a-trois? What data should I use? Would a side by side comparison of my blow jobs versus your fiancée’s be helpful? I quite think my technique is superior.” Each huffed word wound her tighter. “Does she let you have her every way you want, anytime you want, because she loves you so much? Perhaps her sister’s drug dealer throws in a little extra something as a thank you for the patronage. Kind of him.”

“Shut up! Shut the fuck up!” he yelled, covering his face with his hands, then throwing them down to his sides.

“Why?! Because I’m right?” She shouted right back.

He smashed his cigarette into the dirt, wincing when he scraped his knuckles on a rock. ” Shit! That hurts!”

“Let me look at it.” She reached for his hand and inspected it carefully. A deep sigh. “I think you’ll live.” Offered a slight smile in truce. 

“You are such a pain in my ass,” he snorted.

“I live to serve.”

They sat in silence for a long moment, serenaded by insect chips and the distant roar of crashing waves. She held onto his hand; he didn’t pull away.

“I fucked this up,” he said. “You don’t think I know that? But you have to believe me when I say that every time I think about next week I want to run to an island in the middle of the Pacific and hide. From her, from her family—my family—all of my friends. The whole damn cast. Dave. Dan. The fans. The press. The only one I won’t hide from is you. Believe me, Emilia. You are— “he hesitated, in his eyes fear—longing—maybe something else, something she knew lived in her too. 

She still wasn’t having it. “I am what? If you say best friend or any synonym, I will rip off your testicles, shish kebab them and feed them to Roxy. And then I will hurt you.”

“No pressure there.” Hunching over, he rubbed his temples, fished in his pockets for another smoke. Found the now empty packet and threw it violently toward the fire. “Fuck!”

She knew the emotion that flickered over his face—years by his side had taught her well. Mercy would be easy. Yielding would be easier. But she would not simplify this for her or him. _Je ne regrette rien._ She sought the courage to say what might break him. 

For certain it would break her.

“Okay then, _mate_ ,” she began, trying—but failing—to sound flippant. “Here is some truth. I-I-“ 

Words fled faster than she could chase after them. It was all such a jumble in her head. Tension rising, she massaged her temples—

And broken, she snapped. In the space of a ragged breath. The weight brought her to her knees. She landed on the blanket with a hard thump. 

A runaway reel of images and feelings—of them—besieged her. Gasping, she bent at the waist, touching her face to her thighs, heart pounding. _Be a dragon_. 

“Emilia—are you alright? Is it your head? I can run back to the car and get your paracetamol.” Eyes wide with panic, he scooted closer.

She held up a hand to halt him. If he touched her, she would splinter into shards.

“Emilia—How can I—Oh please, Em let me— “Tears wetted his cheeks.

“Shhhhh. It’s fine. We’ll sort this.” She touched his sleeve, reassuring—him or her, she wasn’t certain. Shoving her hair out of her eyes with a fist, she inhaled several deep steadying breaths, forcing her slamming heart to cooperate, dammit. _Honest. Be honest Emilia._ She screwed her eyes shut to clear away freely falling tears. Another deep breath. And another. She regarded him—only to be drawn once again into his undertow. She gulped.

“I love you.”

Her voice sounded small and thin to her ears. She felt unbelievably stupid and naive.

“I know my timing is shit.” Conjuring an approximation of a smile, she said, voice quavering, “Surprise!” A pause, then much quieter. “Sorry.”

Eyes wide, he shook his head in disbelief. Studied her. Shaped his lips as if to speak, instead pursed them tightly. He rested an elbow on his knee and stared at her—shock, incredulity, relief—she couldn’t guess.

Not necessarily the reaction she anticipated.

Moving to sit closer to him, but unwilling to face him, she brushed her shoulder against his. “I have to leave because knowing that we can’t keep being the way we have been for so long hurts so fucking much. And if I stay, I will lose what is left of whatever decency I have and absolutely positively refuse to let you go.”

“Em,” he whispered gruffly. 

She steeled herself against what she knew would be painful words. An apology. Worse—pity. “I understand what an impossible situation I’ve thrown you into.” Words tumbled out. “I have no expectation that you— “

Kit clamped a hand over her mouth. “Hush, woman.” A pause. “I love you too.” Forehead furrowed, he watched her for a long beat—and laughed. “If you could see your face— “

Shocked—embarrassed—she pushed his hand away from her mouth. She stretched out face first, burying herself in the blanket, needing to cool her flushed cheeks. Finding no comfort, she rolled onto her back, suddenly desperate to find stars amidst the clouds blanketing the sky. Anything but him. She could only imagine what gymnastics her eyebrows were performing. She had no words. Perhaps a first.

He laid down on his side, reaching over to cup her cheek and turned her face toward him. “I loved you first, I’m sure of it. I started falling as soon as we met.” He traced his fingertips over her cheekbone, her chin… “I wanted you for years. To be with you in a real way—breakfast and taxes and loo rolls.”

Leaning into his touch, her entire body hummed as it always did. 

Twirling a lock of her hair, he continued, “I love your brilliant, filthy mind. That you can quote Yeats and Jay-Z in the same sentence. Your compassion—you are kind to _everyone._ You are wicked funny and extraordinarily brave. You are a sexy beast, my girl. I am in awe of you.”

She rolled onto her side. “If I love you and you love me, why are we in this shit storm?”

He covered his face with his hands. “That would be on me. Because I’m a mess. You know I am.”

She averted her eyes, tracing the plaid patterns with a finger, wishing with all her being that he was lying or exaggerating, but she knew he wasn’t.

“Look at me, love.”

And once again she was drawn into orbit around him, 

“I need to be better—to sort out all the reasons why I am so shit at being faithful. Why I drink too much. Why I end up being the worst version of myself all the fucking time.” Pain twisted his face. 

“Why Rose?” She invoked the name she had been avoiding for days. “Why now? Why not wait and sort yourself out? How is this fair to her?”

“Because maybe this will fix it!” he hissed. “Maybe this will force me to be good. Maybe it’s time and I need to grow the hell up. And maybe because Rose doesn’t care!”

She ground out, “And I do? Because I won’t stand by and let you commit suicide by centimeters of self-destructive choices, I’m the bad guy. Love is irrelevant?” 

He sat up and turned away from her, waves of palpable pain rolling off him. “She wants me—she loves me—no matter how ugly it gets.” He buried his face in his hands. “It’s messy, Em. I don’t even think you know what I’ve done.”

She scrambled to her knees and grabbed his face. “I get it, Kit. I might be the only one who does…after my surgeries...the depression. The anxiety. Numbing yourself with anonymous fucking because you just feel shitty all the time.”

“But you’re strong...I don’t think I can be that strong.”

“I believe in you. I know you!” Her voice cracked. “I believe in what _we_ can be, given the chance.”

He mirrored her position. “Aren’t you even a little worried that the intensity of this”—he gestured between them— “is at least a little bit because of Jon and Dany? And this fuckin' nightmare season!”

“But we made it. I could never have done it without you. You were _my_ strength.” Pushing aside however awkward she might have felt, she fisted her hand and touched it to her heart, making their secret sign. 

He grabbed her fisted hand and touched it against his own heart. “And that makes it harder to know what we are right now.”

“You think this thing we feel is situational?” She jerked back, feeling his words stab.

He shook his head no, reaching out to rest a hand on her shoulder. ”I don’t know how leaving this behind will change us both. I will not risk losing you forever because I am desperate for you now.”

She hooked his pinky with hers. Their entwined hands dangled at their sides, lacing and interlacing. They sat silently, tracing the bumps and knobs of knuckles. Fingertip to fingertip, touches that made her fuzzy and achy.

He turned over her palm and placed a kiss there, his gaze fixed on hers.

A moan escaped her as he touched his lips to her wrist, his mouth opening ever so slightly to touch his tongue to a pulse point. A tremor rippled through her; gooseflesh erupted on her arms. 

Probing her with his eyes, she knew he was asking permission. What happened next would be up to her. Whether she curled into his arms and clung to him until dawn, or she climbed into the car and drove back to Belfast. She needed a minute to collect herself. She knew what she should do—

What she wanted was a different matter. She was done with denial.

She grasped the sides of his jacket and pushed it off his shoulders until it hung from his elbows, restraining his arms in the sleeves. When he tried to speak, she placed a finger on his lips to silence him. Her hands went next to the long-sleeved oxford, leisurely undoing each button, baring his chest. Indulgently, she allowed her hand to remain on his warm, firm skin for a long moment. _Enough_.

She tugged at his jacket. “Off.”

He looked intrigued, and complied.

“Sit on your hands,” she commanded.

“What— “

“Do it.” It was non-negotiable and it was clear he realized it by the speed of his compliance. 

She waited. Watched. He wanted her. She sensed it.

She needed him to want her _more._

She shrugged off her coat, his eyes devouring her every gesture. She allowed him to hunger a bit longer. To wonder what was hidden beneath her demure white sweater. 

Slowly. Ever so slowly, she slid her hands down her body, arching as her fingers fanned over her breasts, lingering long enough to draw his eyes; his breath hitched. When her hands reached her waist, she grasped the hem of her sweater and wiggled it up over her torso. She tossed it on the ground. Her index finger dragged one camisole strap down, then the other, teasing the sheer black lace beneath. 

He swallowed.

She knew that look. She coveted it. How much longer he would keep his hands pinned beneath his thighs she couldn’t guess. The cords in his neck tightened, forearms tensed. Teasing to punish him wasn’t the point: rather the opposite. 

Resting her hands on his shoulders, her forehead fell against his. Never closing her eyes, she curved into him, the hard points of her nipples glancing over his chest, then pulling back. And again. His pulse quickened. Grabbing him by the hair, she tilted his head back and kissed the curve of his shoulder dragging her lips along his skin to the next kiss, and a drag, tasting the salt and the musk as she kissed again with a scrape of her teeth. She touched him only with her lips, her tongue until he groaned. She reached his ear—pulled away—stretched cat-like, licked her lips. Waited. Seconds passed. More. And then she tugged his hair, and resumed the tortuous mapping of his opposite shoulder with her lips and teeth until he trembled. And she sat back to watch him, pupils blown, writhing and twisting. He would wait. 

...until she kissed his earlobe, a feather lick and then suckled it into her mouth—and then the other side. He strained to press against her and she held herself a hair’s breadth from his body. She unbuckled his belt, let it dangle; unfastened the top button of his trousers, eased the zipper down just enough to loosen the waistband. Eyes locked with his, she firmly palmed his cock, refused him friction. He grunted each breath, but held her gaze. She squeezed her thighs together to relieve some of the ache. How easy it would be to give in...

Waiting continued…

...until it didn’t.

Parting his shirt, she pushed her hands into opposite sides of his waistband, skimming his flesh with her palms from his hip bones to his ribs. A warm sheen of perspiration coated his skin. Touch guided her to the ‘V’ of muscle framed by his hips. The fine dark hairs felt like silky thread against her fingers. Bracketing his waist with a hand on each side, she moved toward his collar bone, warming the notch below his Adam’s apple with her breath. She felt him strain against her touch.

Instinct drew her attention drifted downwards. She circled around his nipple with her tongue, swirling in smaller and smaller circles until she reached the peak, and with a gentle bite finished him. And then to the other nipple. Tasting him both satisfied a craving and ignited an appetite. All the while her mouth moved, her fingers stroked up and down his sides until she could feel gooseflesh erupting across his belly. Another bite—he flinched and jerked back.

“Fuck, Em! What are you— “

A kiss silenced him; she pulled back slightly, lips grazing in the barest of touches. She traced the outline of his lower lip with a blunt fingernail. He closed the distance, his tongue pushing into her mouth; she gladly parried him—and pulled back yet again. His eyes flickered downwards. 

“Like what you see?” she teased. _How he looked at her!_

He barely nodded.

“You want this view instead?” She sat back, rolled down the waistband of her yoga pants until they hung off her hips and allowed her hand to rest between her legs long enough to tease. “Or this?” She tugged his head into the softness of her breasts. His ragged exhalations warmed her skin, he inhaled _her_ —sweat, lemon scented lotion, fading perfume. He sought the velvety valley between her breasts with his mouth. Oh how she wanted him to take her—

But not yet.

Pressing her cheek against his, she whispered “I will always haunt your thoughts and dreams, my love.”

He stilled.

“When you are alone—when you close your eyes... It will be my face you see, my mouth, my tits you crave.” 

Collapsing against her shoulder, he panted into her skin, needing to touch her—she knew it.

“You will want me; you will miss me and I will never leave you.”

_I am a secret imprinted on your skin._

“Please, love…. please…” he whispered.

She sought his mouth. An explosion of teeth and tongues and lips erupted. His hands escaped and cupped her skull. Her arms wound around his neck. 

Closer. She needed him fused, skin to skin. Straddling his lap, she linked her legs behind his back, resting her ankles at the small of his back. Squeezed. 

His hands went to her arse and he pulled her into his pelvis with a painful smack of bones. 

Sweet, pungent wind rattled leaves and branches, scented with the seaweed and stone from below. A distant percussive rumble broke the quiet. 

“Is that— “she managed to squeak before Kit plundered her mouth once again.

A jagged, flickering flash—a crack—sonic boom trembled the air. Lightning cleaved the sky.

Icy droplets stung her arms; they flew apart, wide-eyed and gasping. Rain pelted the ground. Jagged bolts glowed bright against grey black clouds.

Thunder clapped.

Shock gave way to panic. They shoved their coats under their arms. Emilia found a torch with functioning batteries. Kit reached for her hand, pulled her up and they raced toward the car. The storm escalated—from ricocheting raindrops to a deluge. As they approached the road, Kit unlocked the car and activated the high-beams.

Tumbling into the front seats, they slammed the doors behind them; gasping, shivering, soaked, they watched a continuous curtain of water roll down the windshield. Rain on the roof plinked like gravel against metal. 

Kit turned on the car. “I can’t run it for long—we’ll need petrol and battery to get out of here. But we should warm the seats some.”

Blowing a sopping lock out of her face, Emilia leaned back into the headrest. She exchanged a look with Kit. “I suppose a cold shower was one way to resolve that situation.”

And they burst into laughter until they coughed, sputtering gradually into hiccups and sniffs.

Unfolding the visor, she noted streaking mascara and other futz on her face; that would not do. She scrubbed at the smears with a towelette retrieved from her purse. 

Kit turned off the car and covered his face with his palms. “Well shit.”

She snorted. 

A stagnant pause.

Gradual awareness of her present discomfort crept up on her. Cold, clammy flesh adhered leather, squeaking and dragging with every shift. Her feet slurped in soaked insoles: she could only imagine how white and pruny they were. And her numb arse cheeks—they had yet to unthaw. She sneezed. 

“The wet clothes need to go. We don’t need pneumonia.” _For your wedding_ she added mentally.

He grinned. “So many indecent possibilities come to mind—but you’re right,” he said, removing the button-down shirt and tossing it on the floor mat at his feet. “Throw your wet clothes over here on my side so we can at least try to keep the puddles in one place.”

“Good thinking.” After removing her shoes and socks, she scooted and shoved the clinging cotton Lycra over her thighs, to her knees and finally onto the ground. Her knickers, thankfully, remained where they belonged—not that there was much to them, but coverage was coverage. 

For his part, Kit had quite a dance underway in the driver’s seat as he twisted and turned every which way trying to peel off his straight-legged jeans. Of course, they were tight as spanx dry, but wet she imagined it was a bit like extracting his legs from a boa constrictor’s mouth. She watched him elbow the horn, activate the windshield wipers and crunch a knee into the steering wheel.

“That will bruise, “she observed dryly.

He narrowed his eyes. Finally, the offending garment pooled around his ankles; he kicked them off into the pile and sat back with a wet smack against the seat. “Perhaps I should reconsider wearing such tight trousers.”

“Mmmhmm.” Teasing him would be easy—clever digs at his vanity. Except...he sat beside her clad only in boxer briefs. Her mouth went dry imagining...Even having a bit more dad bod than several months ago hadn’t diminished his appeal. 

Being more aware of him increased her self-awareness. She still wore a camisole over her lace bra—a symbolic effort considering that the rain had rendered the clinging fabric virtually transparent. He could see _everything_. It shouldn’t matter but it did. They had the ease and familiarity of long-standing friends—intermittently lovers. And actors! _Fully nude,_ they had simulated sex for the camera. His body had no surprises for her nor hers for him. But right now, she cared how she appeared to him: as if seeing her vulnerable empowered him. Deep in her ruminating, she had failed to notice that Kit now watched her closely; she blushed imagining what he might be thinking. 

He smiled and looked away, but not before she witnessed pink suffusing his cheeks. They had ended up like a couple of bashful kids sneaking out after curfew.

Unbidden, shivers beset her. She erupted in goosebumps, teeth chattering. “Yeah. Still cold. You?”

“Em—let’s climb in the back. Share the blanket. Get warm.”

She nodded scrambling over the passenger seat into the back. Kit followed after. Ever the gentleman, he spread the wooly blanket over her lap. 

“Wait.”

He halted, looked at her questioningly.

“I don’t want to get the blanket wet.” Without looking at him, she lifted the camisole from her waist and yanked it over her head, tossed it on the wet clothes pile. Primly, she crossed her arms in front of her chest.

Kit’s jaw unhinged and for a moment he didn’t seem to know where to tuck in the blanket. He settled on draping the throw over her front like a curtain, then similarly over himself. That he could be thoughtful, without teasing, in a moment like this when she obviously felt uncomfortable still astonished her. Even now, she struggled to settle herself—feeling keyed up and anxious, her emotions running high. And he was still gentle with her. Having always been a girl who could keep up with the boys had meant that they often treated her like one of the boys, roughly, unsympathetic to perceived feminine weaknesses. Not Kit.

“Thank you.”

He yawned. “For what?” 

“For being decent. For making me feel safe.”

Leaning his head against hers, he huffed a sigh. “Of course, Em.” 

“I’m so glad you are in my life.” Snuggling against him, she felt his tension draining away as he nestled back into the seat. 

“We should try to sleep,” he said finally. “I have no idea when we will be able to leave.”

“Mmhmmm.” She closed her eyes. And opened. “It smells like wet gym socks in here.”

“We _could_ go outside.” Kit side eyed her. “Roll down the windows for fresh air.”

A pounding measure of thunder shook the roof, punctuating his thought. 

“Or not.”

Being in luxury German sports car shouldn’t be worse than yurt camping at Glastonbury. As much as she tried to relax, her mind raced. Making joke could fix it; his laugh was her favorite. Or she could plan some of her upcoming vacation to Sicily. There was the Booker Prize novel she needed to option—

“I can hear you thinking, Emilia. You want to talk about it?” He caressed her bare shoulder soothingly. 

She didn’t. She should. Being encircled in his warm, well-muscled arms would be more pleasurable than sorting out the confusion in her head. What was the point of trying to make sense of _them_? In a week he would belong to another woman and her feelings would be irrelevant. Fodder for a therapist, perhaps, but irrelevant. But wasn’t lust without enough honesty how they ended up here?

She sighed. “Is it weird now—that we said it?”

“You mean- “

She nodded. 

“In the moment, it’s easy to get carried away,'' he said, eyeing her warily. “You probably regret— “

“No! Shit. No. I meant it. I still mean it. I don’t want to ruin us. We can forget it if you want— “

He touched a finger to her lips. “I love you, Em.”

“Good. I love you too. I still can’t believe how bad we’ve fucked this up.” 

He laughed grimly. “Star-crossed? Fated to always barely miss.”

“And we are back to Shakespeare: ‘The fault..is not in our stars, but in ourselves.’” She paused. “I lied about flying to London tomorrow—or today. Whenever we are.” 

He stiffened. 

“Please don’t say anything. I need to get this out.” She threaded her fingers through his, drawing his hand into her lap.

Shifting, he turned to her, brow furrowed. “Should I be nervous about where this is going?”

She squeezed his hand harder. Taking a deep breath, she leaned closer to him, resting her head against his chest. “I can’t look at you. I will lose my fuckin’ nerve.” 

He rested his cheek on her head, burying his nose in her hair. 

She swallowed. “I have been so hurt and angry about you and me that I wanted to make it all about you. But that didn’t own my part in all this. I am really good at pushing people away.

“I lived in terror for so long—that my career would be disastrous, that I could die or end up brain damaged in care for life. So I convinced myself that being tied down was a mistake. And when I started to feel like maybe it would be okay, I wanted to play and try new things. Live big. It didn’t help matters that you basically fucked your way through Belfast…”

He groaned. “Point taken.”

She waved a dismissive hand. “I don’t care who you fucked or why.”

“You are very magnanimous about it. “

“Why wouldn’t I be? I made my own stupid decisions. Plenty of them. One of the worst? I didn’t stand my ground when I recognized that my feelings for you were becoming more serious, I should have.”

“And we might have tried to be a couple and broken up already. For good. And hated each other for legitimate reasons. We were both at such different places even a year ago.”

“Why is this so hard?!” She cried.

“I don’t know, love.” 

Kit wrapped an arm around her shoulders and held her closer. Comforted by his touch, she nuzzled near his heart, soothed by the rhythmic thud…. thud….thud….

Through the fogged-up windows, lightning scribbled across the sky, marbling them momentarily in variegated greys. She watched the bolts stab and crash, the flashes blurring through water rippling down the glass. 

She tipped her head up, smiling tenderly. “I’ve been trying to think of a way to describe, well, us, I guess. You know this will sound weird— “

“Everything sounds weird in the middle of the night. We’re half delirious. It’s like being stoned without well, being stoned.” He shrugged. 

“No really. This is a little goofy.” She took a deep breath. “It’s like I’m Peter Pan and you’re my missing shadow. We need to be sewn together….” her shoulders slumped, “because I’m not complete without you.”

“That doesn’t sound weird.” He rubbed his nose against hers affectionately. “It’s poetic. And sentimental and I love that about you.”

“I just can’t say soul— “

His lips punctuated her sentence. Surprise yielded quickly to pleasure. His kisses masterfully disarmed her racing mind. This felt real. This felt _honest_.

Teeth clattered together as she pushed up, her mouth chasing his, watching him from beneath half-lidded eyes, daring him to follow through. Glazed wide pupils gazed darkly at her. Hands in her hair, fingernails embedded in her scalp, he restrained her head, demanding her submission with hard bruising kisses. She bit his lip, soothed him with her tongue and soft murmurs. 

Pulling back for a ragged breath, he again dominated her mouth, leading a dance of firm pressure and bare brushes against skin until she tilted away dizzily, gasping—only to be plundered. Meeting his siege with her own, she captured his tongue and suckled in the taste of tobacco—of wine and peppermint. He pushed through her lips; tangling, they battled, separating only to breathe. 

“Emilia— “he grunted. 

“Please— “Hungry for his warm skin she pushed against him, weaving her arms around his neck, then scraping her fingernails over his shoulders and arms. She inhaled his musk; foggy heat erased all but want. He dragged a wet trail down her neck, across her collarbone. Moaning, she rubbed against him, needing friction more than air. 

His hands—on her hips—on her arse—stroking the small of her back until shivers zapped into her curling toes. And oh _fuck_ she wanted those fingers where she craved them. In the circle of his arms, she arched shamelessly, begging for relief that only he could give. He answered, toying with a painfully erect nipple through fabric. She unhooked her bra and shook it off her arms. 

He spun her around, facing her forward, nesting her between his legs. His hands cupped her tits, grazing nipples with his thumbs, twisting and pulling until she felt faint. His cock pressed heavily into the cleft of her arse; she pushed back into him, smiling secretively when his fingers stuttered. Resting her head against his shoulder, she hooked an arm around his neck and pulled him down into a languid sloppy kiss. Eyelids fluttering, she glimpsed up at him—

—caught a flash of skin in the rear-view mirror. Curious, she sat up a few inches and watched his hands touching her possessively. Swollen lips. Saw the beard burn on her neck and chest. He had marked her as his. Ravished. Claimed.

And her eyes met his in the mirror. She saw her want reflected in him. Breathing quickened. He watched her watch him. His hands stilled. She allowed them to fall. She stroked her breasts, circling the areola with her fingers until she reached the tips. His glassy gaze pleased her. She licked her fingers, then twirled them until they felt fat and thick between her fingers. His grip on her waist tightened until she knew he would leave bruises. Shifting restlessly, she sought relief from this most exquisite torture—

One of his hands slid down her side, stroking the skin at the top of her thigh. He pushed aside her knickers and snaked a finger inside. He moaned when he found her swollen and wet. She wiggled against his hand, craving the pressure, feeling empty and needing him to fill her with more. No longer did she want to be separate. 

Grabbing his wrist, she stilled him. Before he could question her, she pulled herself up on shaky legs to a squat, holding onto the headrest with one hand, and yanking her knickers down her legs with the other, awkwardly dispensing of the tangle around her ankles.

“You are mine,” she whispered huskily, offering him a knowing smile in the mirror, an invitation.

His boxer briefs disappeared before she crouched down in front of him.

Their eyes met, held—until she felt peeled open, her most intimate self exposed.

The soft vulnerability of his smile, his lips swollen from her kisses, wrenched her heart. Reaching for her, he caressed her cheek with the back of his hand. She leaned into his touch.

“And you are mine.” He quirked a half smile. “Sewn together?”

She nodded. “Sewn together.”

He lay back flat onto the seat, bent his knees. She reached for him. He guided her to his hips; she straddled him as best she could in the small space, bracing herself with a hand on the roof for support. But he bracketed her hips with his hands and tugged gently, encouraging her closer to his head. 

_Oh._ Her eyebrow raised. A warm tingle suffused her limbs, heat rising up her chest, her neck. She grabbed onto the roof handle and scooted forward, finding the cold condensation on the glass a welcome relief. His breath grazed her inner thighs, a whisper of lips. She hunched forward, shoulders collapsing against the window, kneeling over his face. 

His open mouth ghosted across her folds.

Her eyes slammed shut, a strangled gasp escaped. Her knees shook but his grip on her hips tightened; boneless, she dropped down onto him with a slap. Wrapping his arm around and over her thigh, he framed her clit with his fingers, pushing out with the slightest pressure. Nerves fired, burning away reason. Her world collapsed; only she, only his intimate touch existed. 

He sipped from her, licking leisurely, teasing touches that left her quivering. Beneath her, rapid massaging strokes intensified her ache until she ground into his mouth, demanding more. Deeply penetrating fingers stoked firmly; mindlessly she rubbed her breasts against the dewy glass seeking relief from the relentless throbbing, the devouring heat. 

“Stop making out with my pussy,” she whimpered. “Just fuck me. Fuck me with your fingers or your mouth...”

“Oh Em,” he chuckled, infuriating her. “You’re such a greedy lass.”

She growled in reply. 

“Patience, Love.” He _slowed down._ A timid lick. Teasing her hood. She groaned. And before she could protest, he pushed his tongue deep inside her, flexing and tapping her walls. She froze—stunned.

“Yes…. oh yes...” she moaned encouragement as she gave herself over to him fully. His fingers replaced his tongue; his mouth tended her clit.

Within her, tension churned like rapidly rising water, thrashing against restraint. Her stomach dropped. She threaded her fingers with his, squeezing as the pressure built higher. Her pounding heart became the rush in her ears became the howling storm.

She glanced down, met his devouring stare and refused to look away. 

The delicious agony and the pressure and the swirling sensations devouring her reached unbearable pitch—

Light burst, blinding her. 

And she cried out in release. Easing her through, he prolonged her pleasure with his tongue until her limbs trembled, then stilled. She flopped backwards against his thighs. He rose up between her legs and pulled her head into his chest, gentling her, carding her hair with his hands, murmuring tender nonsense; she clung to him, panting, swallowing hard. 

Her breathing slowed, she lounged lazily in his arms. Rubbing her cheek against his, she enjoyed his bristly beard scratching her face. She hummed, contented. Tilting her head back to look at him, she knew this was how love was supposed to be.

She coaxed him to lay back down. Disentangling herself from being wrapped around his torso, she followed after him. He laid on his side; she laid down facing him. She wrapped a leg around his hip, pulled him closer. Raising her face to his, she paused just shy of touching her lips to his.

With a feral smile, she growled, “Now it's your turn.” 

* * *

The rain tapered off to a drizzle. Dawn was still many hours away but neither of them had any motivation to unwind their limbs, sticky with sweat and fluids, entangled carelessly. Examining their bodies, Emilia couldn’t tell where she stopped and he began. She fit there, tucked beneath his chin, as if she had been fit for this man. Believing in destiny hadn’t been an indulgence of hers, but she had to believe there could be a better ending for them. Fate’s intentions could hardly be known—if she belonged to him and he to her, surely a way would eventually be found. 

If only someday came now.

Kit yawned. “I don’t want to move until next year.”

“Satisfied, are you?” she teased.

“My dick might be sprained.”

She reached between his legs and took him firmly in hand. “There are ways of testing that hypothesis.”

“I might be willing to be part of that experiment.”

“Our magic elf didn’t happen to pack a bottle of lube in the picnic basket?”

“Alas, no.”

“There’s olive oil in the boot though— “she stopped and contemplated how she might procure it most efficiently.

“Olive oil? “

“Oil is oil. The ancient Greeks and Romans didn’t have blueberry fig lube, darling.”

He snorted indelicately. 

“Fine then. We can dress in our dirty clothes and play charades until morning. “

“No! No. I mean there is a latch by the headrest that releases the seat.”

“I’m glad you came around to my way of thinking.” She considered moving, rooting around in the boot, and thought better of it. “Maybe in a few minutes…. Or longer.”

“Hah!” he pounced. “You’re tired too.”

“Perhaps. And maybe I might be walking a bit bow-legged tomorrow.”

“If fucking were an Olympic sport, we would be gold medalists.” He pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

She grinned against his skin, then sprawled atop him. Resting her chin on his chest, she studied him for a long moment. “I love you.”

The look that made her feel cherished and understood and adored returned. Only he looked at her that way. She might miss that expression most of all. A caress dragged along her cheek. She took his hand and kissed his fingers, his palm and held it against her heart.

“I love you too, my girl.”

Wrapped up in each other and content, her eyelids gradually grew heavier; his head bobbed progressively deeper as the minutes passed. 

They slept.

Together, they faced the sunrise.

* * *

**Epilogue**

_Late August 2018; London, England_

He stood on the landing, alternating his stare between the paving and the door painted a deep cobalt. Of course, she would have a blue door in a neighborhood full of black doors and white doors. Ordinary would never be her style. 

He raised his hand to knock. Thought better of it. His hand dropped to his side.

Behind the door, he imagined he heard an operatic trill, a percussive rumble and what definitely was a guitar riff. As always there was music: that was who she was. He grinned, thinking of all the times she had serenaded him, usually to make him laugh but sometimes not. A heady chocolate scent taunted his growling stomach. He wondered what she might be up to—was she alone? 

And what the fuck was he doing at her house anyway? He hadn’t asked permission to stop by. Group chat kept him apprised of her whereabouts; with the Emmys quickly approaching, the “band” would be getting back together so to speak. Probably better to see her before they ran into each other on the red carpet. As always, she would be a consummate professional, rarely ruffled by whatever the idiot reporters, hysterical fans, or wasted celebrities might toss at her. 

Would that he could be so certain of his own grace under pressure. He suspected she would render him a tongue-tied fool blushing like a green boy on his first date. Such behavior would be unbecoming a newly married man. People would notice; he didn’t want to invite gossip that might besmirch her reputation. Her reputation mattered to him far more than his did. 

He found the opinions of others mattered less and less to him, a dangerous development for one whose livelihood depended on public goodwill.

Beyond all his bullshit rationalizations, the sobering reality of his marriage managed to cut through all his self-deception. It hadn’t been long enough to say he had given his marriage a legitimate go, but the signs indicated a Cold War might be imminent. 

Several nights ago, they had plunged to a new low, an accomplishment in a multi-year relationship marred by infidelity, illegal drug use, and alcohol abuse—by both parties. 

Making room for a spouse (and wedding gifts) in the flat he owned had become paramount—he ought to have prioritized it sooner. She had wanted it sorted before the wedding, and had complained about it dragging on. Understandably, his wife had grown tired of his sullenness as he sorted through books, scripts and memorabilia from the last twelve years. All hope for cheery nostalgia evaporated when he organized Thrones pictures from his Leica SD cards. Meandering down the rabbit hole turned into galloping headlong into memories he had conveniently compartmentalized. Tucked away in that well-hidden cupboard? Her. 

She resided there, taking up shelves and shelves and shelves...tourist pictures, silly selfies, nights out with Nat or John or Jacob. The truly intimate photos he buried as deep as he could—the nude beach in Spain, post-coital lazy mornings when their room smelled of sex. 

The “little woman” noticed his mood and suspected its genesis. She was already paranoid about his best friend. Their marriage had a bit of a ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ policy where _she_ was concerned. Whether his wife knew the extent of involvement with his co-star was debatable. She knew they dallied for years in the fuck buddies stage and remained close regardless of whoever rolled out of their respective bed linens. What she didn’t realize was the depth and strength of their emotional connection: how she, his best friend, would be the last person he wanted to text before he slept, or the first person he wanted to share his good news with. His lawfully wedded wife landed a notch below his parents on his list of concerns all too often. The realization terrified him and he despised himself for it. He knew he had to fix it—if it was fixable. 

Guilt proved to be an excellent motivator. 

He planned a nice meal. Soft music. Candlelight. He showered her with attention and praise. 

Some wine—alright a lot of wine—had softened them both up after a week of almost non-stop quarreling. Tumbling onto the couch, groping like kids came easily. Her warm body, the way she attacked his belt and pushed his trousers down over his thighs—all of it dragged him into a woozy, bleary alcohol-soaked place. Reality blurred around the edges. When he felt her hot breath on his cock, his brain shut down. And yet it managed to conjure _her_ perfume, transporting him far away from his Islington living room. 

And that’s when it all went tits up. 

_“You are so fuckin’ good at this…Em—”_ he groaned deliriously. 

Rose shoved him off the couch, into the coffee table, and stormed out the front door.

Had he been her, he probably would have kicked himself in the balls. 

When he realized he was bleeding, he called a black cab to take him to A&E. The doctor quickly ruled out a concussion, but asked what he had been doing that required 10 stitches in two layers on the back of his head. 

He had made a joke about sword fighting in the kitchen. 

A cab drove him home after he signed a few autographs for bashful nurses’ aides and orderlies (who of course didn’t ask—but he could tell they wanted to.) He went straight to the guest room and slept in his clothes. He woke up hungover, wincing from pain and wearing the sticky evidence of his vivid, erotic dreams about Emilia.

A note on the kitchen counter informed him that his wife had gone with her sister to join friends in the south of France and she would return when she damn well felt like it. Oh—and by the way—he was invited to go fuck himself.

He was so relieved. 

He shouldn’t have been. He should have been ashamed. The realization troubled him.

When the invite to Emilia’s house warming soirée showed up in today’s post, addressed to “Kit & Rose,” he stared at for at least an hour while nursing a beer. Stopping by her house unannounced was a colossally bad idea. But like most things involving Emilia Isobel Euphemia Rose Clarke, it was impossible to resist. Besides, she lived a manageable fifteen minute walk from his flat. He could use the exercise and fresh air. To mark the occasion of leaving his flat, he showered and put trousers on for the first time since Rose left for France. 

Progress.

Until he arrived on her doorstep.

He toyed with the sage-beige baseball cap on his head, trying to adjust his man bun so it felt more comfortable. A flash of memory reminded him of the day on Rathlin when Em had worn the cap while laying down in faerie circle flowers. Gazing up at him, she practically glowed: pale and lovely as an angel—with the body of a pinup model, the brain of a literature professor, and the mouth of a sous chef in a hot kitchen. Perfection, essentially. He laughed.

Before he could overthink it for another ten minutes—the late August sunshine combined with London’s humidity made him feel like he was taking a sauna—he rapped his knuckles against the wood panels and waited.

Roxy barked emphatically. The music volume dropped. He wasn’t sure his knock had been heard, so he raised his hand to knock a second time when the door swung open.

After wiping her hands on a floury gingham apron, she leaned against the door with her forearm, a fist rested on her cocked hip. She arched an eyebrow. “I heard you the first time, motherfucker. Get in here.”

He grinned—like the damn fool he was—and stepped into the foyer. Roxy nudged at his knee. Dropping to the hardwood floor, he scratched behind her ears the way he knew she loved and was rewarded with enthusiastic face licks.

“Oh Roxy, you traitorous hussy. Come along.” The pup ran to her mistress’s side, then trotted down the hall. She looked back at him. “You too.”

After toeing off his slip-on shoes, Kit followed her down a hallway toward the kitchen, watching her hips sway the usual Emilia tempo; denim cutoffs complimented her curves. He appreciated that she had gained a few pounds eating Italian food over her holidays. 

A hot pink bra strap drooped beyond the edge of her ‘Herman ze German Sausages’ tank top and onto her arm. He repressed the impulse to tuck it back up underneath her clothes.

“Are you staring at my arse, Harington?”

He blushed at being called out. “Yes.”

She spun around with a deep bellied laugh. “Good. I’m glad my hard work in squats is paying dividends.”

“You want squats, Clarke? I can kick your arse in squats.”

The kitchen appeared to be a work in progress as several cabinets were missing doors and stray bits of garish floral wallpaper flapped off the walls all the way up to the vaulted ceiling. Her extensive cookbook collection was spread between shelves and stacks on the floor. Containers of flour, caster sugar, and cocoa cluttered the granite countertops beside used bowls and other utensils he couldn’t identify. A fan chugging away whilst perched on a stool hardly ameliorated the heat pouring out of the oven.

He removed his cap and perched it on the pile of cookbooks.

“I have ambitious plans for this pile of bricks,” she announced. 

“A bit of DIY?”

“Me? Really? I’m impressed that you think I’m capable of that, but I’d fuck it up for sure”

An ear-piercing timer shrieked and they both jumped. 

“Oops. Sorry. Gotta get that.” She retrieved a pair of oven mitts from the counter. ” Help me out, Kit?” 

First, he opened the oven door, and then he pushed aside the eggs to clear a spot on the counter for the cooling racks. 

Bending over, she tested the cake with a toothpick; he enjoyed watching her top hike up revealing a tanned back. 

He quickly moved out of her way when she removed one round cake pan, returned for the second pan, then kicked the oven door closed when she took out the third.

He whistled appreciatively. “Impressive.”

“This is a triple layer chocolate obsession cake. Chocolate truffle filling, ganache frosting.”

“Diabetes on a platter. Let me guess: your BBC bestie?”

Em saluted. “My ride or die, Mary Berry. Never fails me.” 

A batter encrusted bowl tempted him: he couldn’t resist swiping chocolate from the rim and sucking it off his finger. Immediately, he went in for another taste.

She promptly smacked his hand. “I hope you get salmonella.”

“I’ll be awfully happy before the misery sets in.” He dragged his finger around the bowl again. Looking around, he noticed a table covered in embroidered linens and set with what he recognized as her entertaining dishes. A milk glass vase stuffed to overflowing with violet hydrangea stems sat in the center. “Oh. So sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude when you have guests coming. 

“No worries. Tonight is informal. Lola is debuting a new gentleman caller.” She fluttered her eyelashes theatrically. She furrowed her brow and started pushing aside cooking tools and bags of ingredients. “Can you help me find the music remote? I used it when you knocked.”

He reached for the Bluetooth Bose system above her stove. “What do you want to listen to?”

“Ah! You’re better than a step stool. Just hit play.”

The cheery melody burst through the air. _“I've got to admit it's getting better.”_

_“Better,”_ she sang the echo to Paul’s lead vocal.

“ _It's getting better—.”_  
  
  


_“—Since you've been mine,”_ she finished the chorus in unison with the Beatles, her voice trailing off when she noticed him watching her.

“It wouldn’t be a day in the kitchen with Em without Sgt. Pepper,” he said, instinctively raising a hand to touch her—

—and slowly let it fall to his side, flexing his fingers, then making a fist.

“Naturally.” She folded her arms across her chest and leaned against the counter

“So Em….”

She studied him placidly.

“You’re going to make this as hard as possible, aren’t you?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” she answered with a smirk. “Have you come to confess your sins?”

His face flamed in an instant. 

She sobered quickly. “I didn’t mean anything—.” 

A new tune exploded—energetic electronic guitars strummed a fast and catchy beat. Emilia’s eyes widened. “This. Is. Perfect.”

Before Kit could react, she sidled over to him, pushing her face up near his, her lips curled in a teasing pout. “ _You better leave—my kitten all alone”_ she sang along with John Lennon in her sultry alto. _“You better leave—my kitten all alone.”_ She sashayed around him, pantomiming swishing her skirts. After swaying and bouncing with the beat, she planted herself in front of him and jabbed a finger into his chest. _“Well I told you, big fat bulldog—You'd better leave him alone.”_

He grabbed her by the wrists, and tucked her into his body. With one arm around her waist, he linked their other hands together. “Dance?”

Eyes twinkling, she flashed him a toothy smile before following him into a swaying and stepping swing pattern through the verse and chorus.

“You’re pretty good at this,” she laughed. “Drama school course?”

He shook his head. “ _Grease_.”

Emilia howled at this revelation. 

He confidently spun her out and rapidly and rolled her in tight before arching her back into a deep and perfect dip. 

They danced down the hallway, sliding on the hardwood floors and into a sitting room, piled high with book boxes and furniture. Roxy ran beside them barking and jumping. Circling back into the lounge room, they collapsed onto the overstuffed couch as the song ended with an exuberant twang.

Smiling broadly, he finger combed his hair, and mopped the sweat from his forehead with his bare arm. 

“You should stay for dinner,” she said finally. “I’m having Ottolenghi salads delivered.”

The prospect of facing an empty flat smelling of mildewed towels, take away curry, and sour beer suddenly felt untenable. A constant reminder of his inadequacies. “I don’t want to intrude.” 

“No worries. There’ll be loads of food. Lola is bringing wine—naturally. David has an appetizer. I made a focaccia my housekeeper in Sicily taught me. Sent me home with her family’s custom blend of olive oil—” she paused, her eyes widened and she clasped a hand over her mouth. “Well fuck me.” 

“Olive oil can help with that, I’ve been told,” he deadpanned. 

Another fit of giggles erupted. Neither could resist sharing progressively more ridiculous, vaguely obscene topics: they started with weird sex toys and ended up discussing _Embarrassing Bodies_. 

A particularly lewd orifice story left Emilia clutching her sides, wheezing. “Stop, Kit! I’m going to toss my lunch on the floor!” 

“Serious face then.” He waved a hand in front of his face, invoking his most frowny Dickensian persona.

She followed suit with the best sour frump face she could conjure—

Until guffaws escaped them both. As their laughter gradually died down, they sprawled out, both watching the ceiling fan spin lazily. 

“Stay for dinner, Kit,” she said. ” Please.” A pause. “I like your company.”

He exhaled. “At least let me help. I can pop down to Waitrose if you need something.”

“That’s fair.”

“Who else is attending?”

“Nice people. Like David and his girlfriend. Besides, you can help me convince Lance— “

“Is Lance better than a step stool?”

She touched his arm. “Lance, my architect, and his husband Freddie, will be joining us. I’m quite certain Lance has a crush on you—the hair! The abs! Having you around might persuade him to move me up in the construction queue.”

“I’d be happy to flirt with Lance if it helps the cause.”

“You don’t mind being whored out to speed up my permits?”

He chuckled. “Anything for you, Em.” 

Smiling brightly, she abruptly sat up. “Call Rose, why don’t you? We can add another plate.” Her voice sounded a bit tinny to his ear. 

He sighed. “She’s on the Riviera. With Portia and a bunch of school friends.”

“Ah. How nice for her.”

He might have imagined the relief in her tone. 

Though he willed her not to ask any further questions, he knew from the knowing look in her eyes that she saw through him. He struggled to hide anything from her: there wasn’t a point to pretending with her of all people.

Embarrassed about his newlywed problems, he segued into what he hoped would be a friendly question. “But really. Are you seeing anyone?”

“Besides my vibrator collection, no,” she quipped.

“I’m 100 percent certain you could crook your little finger and half of London would come running. Men—and straight women who would happily learn lesbian for you.”

“I don’t want half of London. I am more...discerning,” she said with a decidedly feline expression.

Studying her look, he sensed the subtext and knew how dangerous this was to his equilibrium, especially considering his frequent nocturnal visits with dream-Em. He had no fucks left to give; however, he had to try.

“Emilia…” his voice trailed off. 

She looked up at him. “A friend of a friend wants to set me up with a director she knows. I’ll meet him in LA next month. She says he’s hilarious. Might be a good to mix up the routine.”

“From actors?” _Me especially_ , he added mentally.

“Absofuckinlutely.” 

“We are the worst, it’s true. Actors, that is. Have you considered bankers or barristers?”

“An entirely different breed of liars but liars still the same.”

“I’ve missed you, Em.”

“You awful shit. Don’t make me cry. I’ve missed you too.”

Wrapping an arm around her shoulders, he pulled her into his side. She tucked into his body, resting her cheek against his heart. Something inside him unclenched. They sat in comfortable silence through several more songs on Em’s Beatles playlist. He rubbed her back; she sighed contentedly. 

“It feels so strange to not be going back to Belfast. No scripts. No flights. No costume fittings,” he said finally.

“It’s like we graduated school and we don’t know what to do with ourselves.” She shook her head. “It gives me PTSD thinking about returning though. After last season. I get nauseous thinking about it.”

“You and me both. But you have a movie.”

“I have a movie. And you have a play. Johnny Flynn is fuckin’ hot by the way.”

“And very married.” It slipped out before he could think about what a hypocrite he was. _He_ was married too and he was alone with a woman, not his wife, cuddling on her couch and he didn’t care one iota. _I am such a horse’s ass_. 

She looked inscrutable, toyed with the fringe on her cut-offs. 

_And damn her legs look spectacular_. He cleared his throat. “The Emmys will be fun.” Without waiting for her to ask, he said, “I’m bringing Dan.”

“Lola.”

“Good.” He grinned.

“Right, good,” her eyes danced.

“I’ll stay for dinner.”

She smiled, flattened a palm against his chest. “Excellent. I really need those permits”

“Woman!” Kit dove in and attacked the ticklish spots on her waist and under her arms.

She cursed a blue streak and giggled rolling away from him only to have him pull her back onto his lap for another round of tickling.

“You win! You win!” She surrendered, but didn’t immediately sit up, allowing her head to remain cradled on his thighs. Her chest rose and fell rapidly as she tried to regain her composure. 

He couldn’t believe how sexy she was: her tanned legs and sun-bleached hair; no makeup except lips tinted with a smidgen of red gloss; her chocolate smudged tank-top; a bandage on her knee. He pushed a pale lock of hair out of her face, tangling it in his fingers. _I am in so much trouble,_ he thought. This thing between them was messy but it was also the most normal thing in his life. 

He wanted to trace each adorable forehead wrinkle, kiss her eyelids and whisper words of love, apologies and praise into the satin skin of her neck and collarbone. 

Searching his face for a long moment, she gazed at him intently; her expression went slack. She blinked. And blinked again. 

Hands twitching at his sides, he repressed the urge to trace her lips with his finger. A steady, low pitched thud in his ears drowned out noise as if he was under water. 

They stared at one another. 

Time slowed, constricted, narrowing to the inches between them. She gnawed her lip, swallowed. The pulse in her throat leaped and beat more rapidly. 

He longed to suck on that pulse and mark her.

Imagination had proved to be a peculiar talent. Having the ability to conjure a reality in his head and convince his mind of its viability had landed him an acting career. And so it made odd sense that his imagination, this gift, would spill into his personal life. 

Believing that his often tempestuous relationship with Rose would translate into a healthy, stable marriage seemed to be another trick of his imagination. 

Had a “time turner” from his beloved Harry Potter come into his possession, where could he go in the past to change who he was here, in Emilia’s home: a newly married man being slowly strangled by his wedding band. 

He wanted to kiss Emilia until she came undone in his arms, to crawl into her heart and live in her sunshine. He would carry her upstairs to make love. Should impatience overtake them, he would shove aside the civilized veneer of antique Wedgewood dishes and hydrangeas to fuck her on the table, worshipping her every curve, corner and angle, her soft and hard places, until she collapsed, pliant and quaking. 

Or she could use him for her own pleasure, deny him, drive him to his knees—strip him bare with a glance, expose his ugliest parts and he didn’t care a whit. He was hers.

Oh, that a time turner could be conjured by his powerful imagination! He would go back to a place where he could discern between the mirage that became his marriage and the oasis that had always been Emilia.

Sharing breath, his lips hovered above hers. 

Her eyes closed; she tilted her head to receive him. 

He moved closer—

—and hesitated. 

With her, he didn’t want to be the damaged fuck-up people accused him of being—that he was. He would never diminish her. 

And that is why he wouldn’t be with her as he longed to be.

Cupping her face in his hands, he pressed a tender kiss to her forehead. 

Whimpering, she grasped his forearms and held him close for a long moment. Drawing her up into his arms, he hugged her tightly until the feel of her skin against his became unbearable, knowing what they had denied themselves.

They drew apart. 

“We should probably— “Emilia began, jerking her head in the direction of the kitchen.

“Cook? Let’s,” he answered, and allowed her to pull him up from the couch.

She shuffled through a stack of wrinkled, stained computer printouts, and handed him one. “Read me the ingredients for the truffle filling.”

As he ran through the list, she inventoried her supplies, opening cupboards and drawers and checking the refrigerator. A few lines into the ganache recipe, she swore.

“What?”

“I’m short double cream.”

“I’ll get it. What else do you need?” He grabbed the reusable grocery tote from a hook on the wall.

She looked relieved. “Cultured butter—Bretagne if they have it. A couple quarts of Haagen Daz vanilla. Pick up an iced latte—”

“—with nut milk. Consider it done.” He smiled.

“Thank you.” She blew him a kiss. 

He bowed formally. “My pleasure. Text me if you think of anything else.” 

He paused in her doorway, looking back at her deep in thought, perusing a recipe book. For a moment, he imagined an alternate reality where this was the home he shared with Emilia and their family. 

Perhaps he would stop at the florist for a bunch of calla lilies to celebrate the start of filming her first screenplay. Tomorrow, they would head out to the cottage with the children to romp in the woods, chase ducks and swing from trees, enjoying the last gasp of summer. But tonight, he would rub her sore feet, they would make out with the excitement of new lovers instead of old marrieds. He would lock the door, hoping their children stayed in their beds for a few hours, 

An alternate world with a different Kit—one that chose love with his best friend.

Closing the door behind him, he skipped down the brick steps and headed down the road to the grocer so he could get back to her as soon as possible. After all, Em needed her cream.

And he needed Emilia. Even from a distance.

* * *

When Kit slipped out the front door, she looked up from her work and imagined, for a moment, that her partner/lover/best friend was off to buy what groceries she had forgotten to add to the Ocado delivery. He would pick their daughter up from ballet and buy her sweets at the market, much to her mother’s chagrin. She touched her flat stomach and a round, ripe baby belly grew beneath her fingers—his child. Their child. He would ravish her as soon as their company left.

Another universe. Another time. Another Emilia. 

She noticed he left his baseball cap behind. Removing it from the cookbook pile, she hung it on one of the hooks mounted on her garden door, beside her straw hat with the black ribbon. It looked like it belonged there—she hadn’t even realized something was missing. 

A timer chimed. 

The spell broke. 

The moment passed.

She returned to tend to the chocolate truffle filling, humming along with the music—and wished. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes
> 
> Julius Caesar, Act I, Scene III, L. 140-141
> 
> Music
> 
> “Getting Better” The Beatles; Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band
> 
> “Leave My Kitten Alone” The Beatles; Anthology 1
> 
> “In My Life” The Beatles; Rubber Soul
> 
> Background/Inspiration
> 
> Inheritance Tracks BBC4 — Emilia Clarke, September 18 2015; Sgt Pepper
> 
> Emilia Clarke Instagram June 17 2018, August 26, 2018
> 
> Crazy Days & Nights Blinds May 26 2018, June 24 2018, August 26, 2018

**Author's Note:**

> End of Part 1 aka foreplay
> 
> Part 2 is when things heat up. Stay tuned.
> 
> Last summer, Emilia Clarke posted a headline grabbing Instagram post saying goodbye to Northern Ireland. She is lying on the ground, surrounded by flowers, wearing a baseball cap. Within the time frame, several fan taken pictures showed up of Kit Harington wearing a hat that looked suspiciously like the one Emilia wore in her goodbye post. Fast forward to this year. In the S8 press, Kit confessed to GQ that he took a stunning picture of Emilia in Spain. In the Inside the Episode, fans saw him snapping away taking pictures of Emilia in Iceland. With my ready and able NDC by my side, we came up with the idea that maybe Kit took the picture of Emilia in the flowers. I started writing paragraphs in my Notes app and that became a full fledged fic. This is what happens when thirsty fans lose their collective minds. ;)
> 
> Referenced  
> Hamlet Act IV; Scene V; Ophelia garland speech 
> 
> Music
> 
> “All the Things You Are” Ella Fitzgerald; The Complete Ella Fitzgerald Song Books
> 
> “The End” The Beatles; Abbey Road
> 
> “In My Life” The Beatles; Rubber Soul
> 
> Background/Inspiration
> 
> Inheritance Tracks BBC4 — Emilia Clarke, September 18 2015; Sgt Pepper
> 
> Emilia Clarke Instagram June 17 2018, August 26, 2018
> 
> Crazy Days and Nights Blinds May 26 2018, June 24 2018, August 26, 2018


End file.
